Smaller text Larger text

Destination: Uncategorized

Posted on

Tasty Tomatoes in Athens

Enlarge photo

I just returned from several days in Athens, and I enjoyed the city more on this trip than ever before. Part of my enjoyment was seeing a place that’s getting its act together, as I believe Athens is. I had a great experience even though I was there at the worst time of year. It was sweltering — well over 100 degrees — and in mid-August, much of the town was gone, enjoying a vacation and finding relief on the beach. Still, there was an energy in Athens that made me want to come back and linger…in the winter.

Right off, I noticed women’s toes. I did a study of feet on my subway ride through town. While sandals and painted toes, of course, are routine whereever it’s really hot, for some reason toes caught my attention in Athens. Surveying hundreds of Greek feet (actually doing a counting tally), I found over 90 percent wore open-toed shoes, and there was a huge emphasis on beautifully painted toes. Women I talked to later affirmed that pedicures are a particulary big in Athens.

Munching a tomato reminded me of my backpacker days here. Back then, tomatoes cost literally pennies each (or drachma, in those days), and that was all I could afford. I ate them like apples at a Huck Finn fest. I grew up thinking vegetables were the pulp of filling the tank — not very flavorful. With my upbringing, broccoli grew in cubes, and cherries came off the tree filled with red dye. I ate mandarin orange sections for years before I ever actually peeled one. Then, when I hit Europe as a teen, I found tomatoes splashed with flavor. My first mushroom was in Germany. My first yogurt was in Yugoslavia. And my first quiche, crêpe, and pâté were all in France. Back in the 1970s, Europe did to my personal food world what color did to my TV.

The oppressive heat was a big topic of conversation on this trip to Athens. My guide pulled a bottle of water from her purse, took a guzzle, and offered me some, saying, “It’s hot enough to shave with.” The day before, she had gone to the departure point for her company’s walking tour, and the heat drove five of the twelve tourists (who had prepaid plenty of money to take the tour) not to show up.

After talking with Athenians about the brutal heat, it occurred to me that even people who live in hot places don’t get used to the heat. When considering the impact of global climate change on our planet, it’s easy for people in temperate climates (like me) to imagine that people in the tropics just get acclimated to the blistering heat. But I don’t think they do — they just suffer through it. That would make me pretty miserable. Like my experience in Athens, they just have no alternative. For most of the people on this planet, summer is as hot as Fargo in the winter is cold.

Athens was still shaken by its recent riots and violence. At the Changing of the Guard in front of the parliament building, we saw the “riot dog” — a stray dog that has hung out around the palace for years. She smells trouble and always sides with the people against the police. Locals look for and usually see her in all the TV coverage.

At lunch, I asked my guide if she felt endangered by the street violence. Putting the last bite of moussaka in her mouth, she told me her grandma’s words of wisdom: “When you see food, eat it. When you see a fight, go away” — advice that has worked very well for her.

I’ll talk more about those riots — and Greece’s much-touted “economic crisis” — in my next entry.

Posted on

A Sweaty Saint, a Sommelier, and Marmite

Last week, sitting down to a traditional fried breakfast in an early-19th-century steel master’s mansion in England’s Ironbridge Gorge (birthplace of the Industrial Revolution), I reviewed ways people had spiced up and given meaning to my travels in the past month.

Collin, who ran the B&B I was enjoying, topped up my coffee and showed me a photo of an industrial wasteland with his stately brick home standing like some weary war survivor in its midst. Today, his delightful house stands in a lush river valley welcoming guests like pilgrims to the place where iron was first produced in the modern way. As his wife, Sara, brought my toast on a rack, I asked about the marmite. She explained to me what the beef-yeast spread was, and that “even the adverts admit you either love it or hate it.”

A few days before that in Paris, under dangling lamps and a heavy subterranean stone vault a block from the Louvre, I spent a tasty and fascinating two hours with Olivier, a passionate young sommelier. He makes his living explaining the fine points of French wine to travelers. Between the pouring and sipping, he shared the basics with random insights: “Riesling works well both in the Alsace and in Russia. A French Alsatian vintner was offered big money to make wine in Russia. He refused, saying, ‘Here, I have the privilege of being from somewhere.'”

A few days before that, in Finland, a man sat naked next to me beating himself with birch twigs while explaining the importance of opening the pores, stimulating circulation, letting out toxins, and relaxing in a place “where there are no bosses and all are equal.”

A week before that, I met Marianne from Berlin, who’d been hiking alone across Spain on the ancient pilgrims’ Way of Saint James. With her floppy backpack dangling carelessly from her tiny frame and backlit goldilocks, she talked with a pilgrim’s philosophy as if singing children’s rhymes. She spoke as if she were a real saint come to earth. Talking with her, I felt like I had just entered a Botticelli painting.

And, packing up after that Ironbridge Gorge breakfast, I was heading west…knowing that, in a couple of hours, I’d cross another border, where I just knew someone would tell me why in heaven they speak Welsh.

If there’s one thing that keeps me enthusiastic about traveling in Europe and teaching European travel, it’s the beauty of connecting people with people. Maybe it sounds trite. But that fact can’t be over-emphasized. If you’re not connecting with people in your travels, you’re missing out.

Posted on

Economic Crisis in Britain? Bingo!

As in the States, people in Britain have been trained by the media to talk about “The Crisis.” For 10 days, all I saw was Britain at play. But the metabolism of tourism is certainly down. It’s sad to see lively cultural events like the medieval folk banquet in Ruthin (North Wales) and the sheep shows (Ewe-phoria in North Wales and the Cockermouth Lakeland Sheep and Sheepdog show near Keswick) fall on hard times. All three were major sights in my guidebook. And now all three are gone or dramatically reduced.

For 20 years, I’ve built my North Wales coverage in part around the medieval banquet at Ruthin Castle. But they recently reduced the schedule to just two a month, making it more difficult for my readers to take part in the festivities. Driving into Ruthin, I intended to cut the town entirely from my guidebook. I was on edge, moody, as if I was about to commit a violent act. I was mad that the town would drop the one thing that put it on travelers’ map. I was going to kill it.

But as soon as I entered my good old Ruthin — and saw the funky half-timbered pubs, the humble fountain, the cheap but beloved WWI monument, the home where Cynthia Lennon lived after John left her, the church with the never-locked wrought-iron gate where everything is in Welsh, and the views down cobbled lanes leading directly into forested hills — I lost my nerve and knew I’d have to keep it in my book. Even with the reduced schedule of the banquet — the wenches playing harps, the noble lord telling Irish jokes, and the rotund voices of Welshmen and -women raising the rafters of the castle dining hall to the delight of tourists from around the world — I couldn’t cut Ruthin entirely. I scaled my coverage down, but kept the city.

Enlarge photo

Enlarge photo

The new attraction for me — perhaps a sign of the times — was not the medieval folk banquet, but the panache that Christopher and Gavin (a big-city couple) have brought their adopted hometown with their artful guesthouse and restaurant. They’re gay, artsy, and flamboyant — a little dicey when they first came to this rural town. But within a couple of years, they and their restaurant were established. In fact, Gavin was actually mayor (actually, “president of the town council”). Today when locals want the best meal in town, they go to the Manorhaus, and are served by Gavin and Christopher.

Culture doesn’t always hit you with a goofy stage show. Especially these days, you need to look harder to find culture in action. Anyone can point you to a great ruined castle or a fine restaurant. But how do we see the culture in action for today’s residents…not tourists? It’s tough. In Conwy (North Wales), I found it in a Bingo Palace. Here’s the new entry for my guidebook:

Conwy’s former cinema is now the Bingo Palace, where nearly every evening people who are very serious about their bingo gather. Visitors simply fill out a free membership card and buy in. Don’t show up after 19:15, because you can’t start late. As the woman calls numbers with her mesmerizing tune (“eight and seven…eighty-seven…all the twos…twenty-two, only five…number five”), intense old ladies who dress up to go play blot their numbers. The tension breaks each time someone calls, “Line!” It’s keyed in with a national game, so someone can really win big. Note: As posted, “If you bring your own teabag, you’ll still have to pay 40p” (joining the game costs £7-14 depending on the evening, Thu-Tue 18:00-22:00, closed Wed, across from Castle Hotel on High Street).

Posted on

Travel Tip: Take a Hike

Enlarge photo

I just spent 10 days in a car exploring Britain. I forgot to note the mileage, but I started in London, scoured the Cotswolds, toured North Wales, and then drove up north to the Windermere Lake District (near Keswick), before returning to London. Total cost for diesel: £120 (about $185).

For the first time, I really took time to hike in the Cotswolds and the Lake District. And when I think back on the highlights of the last 10 days, those hikes were it. Nothing too demanding — just hiking through farmland from Stow-on-the-Wold through the Slaughters to Bourton-on-the-Water and back in the Cotswolds; and up along Catbells, high above the lake called Derwentwater in the Lake District.

The point: I can’t imagine a better way to spend three hours in a day. Every day has three hours to spare. What else is so important between 4 o’clock and dinnertime? With these walks, I take home vivid memories.

In the Cotswolds: farms in action viewed from behind, ducks rudely butt-up in millponds, rabbits popping up in fields like some video game challenge, ancient wind-sculpted trees, wet and slippery kissing gates, and slender slate church spires marking distant villages where a hot cuppa tea awaits.

In the Lake District, I struggled up and over Catbells — a ridge walk I’ve recommended for years (and felt guilty having never actually hiked). The weather almost kept me in. But I was glad I ventured out — the wind “blowing the cobwebs out” (as my B&B host warned) once atop Catbells ridge, the comedic baa-ing of sheep, being the stick figure on the ridge for those observing from distant farms or boats on the lake…as others have always been the stick figures for me.

And, oh, the joy of a pub after a good hike. Studying the light on ruddy faces while sipping the local brew in a pub has always been part of the magic of travel in Britain. When your face is weather-stung and your legs ache happily with accomplishment, the pub ambience sparkles even better.

About the weather: In Britain, you don’t wait for the weather to get good. Blustery weather is part of the scene. Consider it a blessing. The majority of “bad weather” comes with broken spells of brightness. Don’t get greedy — you wish for and are thankful for brightness, not sunshine. As they say here, there’s no bad weather…just inappropriate clothing. And if you’re in a hiking area and your clothing is inappropriate, your B&B host can likely loan you a heavy coat (along with the best local map).

Hiking along the ridge, with the weather — like a dark army — storming overhead, the wind buffeting in my ears, my camera bulging but dry under my coat, and a commanding 360-degree lakes view…makes me want to turn cartwheels.

Posted on

Notes from a Parisian Wine-Tasting

Enlarge photo

Olivier Magny, a young sommelier, gathers tourists in a royal French wine cellar a block from the Louvre. Two crude lamps hang under a rustic vault. Before us, sparkling empty glasses await an impressive array of fine French wines. As we drink, Olivier gives us a wonderful commentary. I’m no wine expert and would never claim to be, but I learned a lot. Here’s what I gleaned (from my rough notes):

White wine should be clear…if not, it’s Spanish.

Acidity is like salt. It gives wine character. “Legs,” a.k.a. “tears,” indicates how much sugar is in the wine. Dry wine has fewer legs; sweet wine has more and faster-running legs.

Americans need to break out of their four favorite words to describe the taste of wine: “dry, sweet, fruity, oaky.” When you sip a little wine and then suck air in, it exaggerates the character. You’re not making it better, but bringing out its flavors, so that it’s easier to identify the characteristics of that particular wine.

The Champagne region defended its name and therefore has a strong image today. The Chablis region did not, so winegrowers outside of France used the name and made it cheaply. Today the real Chablis is better than its reputation.

Terroir (pronounced “tehr-wah”) is a uniquely French concept. The French don’t call a wine by the grape’s name. Two wines can be made of the same grape, but be of very different character because of their terroir. A real Chablis made from the Chardonnay grape is better than Chardonnays made elsewhere because of its terroir. Terroir is “somewhere-ness,” a combination of the macro- and microclimate, soil, geology, and culture (the accumulated experience of the people and their craft).

Grapevines are creepers, with roots going through the topsoil and into the geology deep down. The roots are commonly 150 feet long and deep. While topsoil can be influenced by the vintner, the deep geology cannot; and this gives the wine a distinct character. The French do not allow irrigation, thus forcing the grapes to search deep for water.

Riesling works well both in the Alsace and in Russia. A French Alsatian vintner was offered big money to make wine in Russia. He refused, saying, “Here, I have the privilege of being from somewhere.”

There are two basic kinds of wine in this world: that of big growers and that of little growers. Big business works better for wine in places like Argentina and Australia (where 90 percent of the wine is made by three companies). Most French wine is still made by thousands of small, independent, and passionate vintners.

The French are not enthusiastic about oak barrels. A French vintner went to a wine conference in California, where the wine is shaped by oak barrels. When pressed to comment on California wines, he said, “I don’t like oak shaping my wine. When I drink Californian wine, I feel like I’m kissing Pinocchio.” (Actually, he had a more graphic way of describing it.) Without the focus on oak-barrel aging, and because of the business environment that encourages small outfits, French wine is lighter and more diverse.

Because of global climate change, wine in general is sweeter these days. A grape can’t be harvested properly until it’s both sweet enough and the tannins are right. This used to happen at about the same time. But lately the grapes are sweet enough many days before the tannin level is ready. Consequently, when the tannins are right and the grapes can be harvested, they are sweeter than is optimal. Before, the average wine was 11 percent alcohol; now it’s 13 percent.

The average French bottle sells for €3.60 (about $4.50). Bordeaux makes half of all French wine; that’s more than all the wine produced in the US. Everyone wants Bordeaux Grand Cru, and that demand drives up the price. That’s why Bordeaux, while very good, is overpriced. Burgundy makes only 3 percent of French wine. Because of its reputation and the demand, it is overpriced as well.

Back when rooms were cooler, the idea that red wine is best drunk at room temperature was established. But room temperature is higher now than it used to be. Consequently, many restaurants serve their reds too warm. It’s perfectly acceptable to ask for it to be chilled. Five or ten minutes in the fridge, and it’ll be just right.

People like their cars and dishwashers made in Germany, not in France. And they want their wines French, not German. Since World War II, the French have lifted their glasses and — after bottoms-up — said, “That’s one thing the Germans won’t take from us.”

Generally, in France you’ll get light wines in the north, and big, full-bodied wines in the south (where it’s sunnier). Big name (e.g., Bordeaux, Burgundy) means big price. Small name (e.g., Languedoc, Sud-Ouest) means potentially better value. Languedoc can be a great value for a big syrah. A high-end Languedoc costs less than a low-end Bordeaux. Of the thousand different grapes that make good wine, 10 are famous. Break out and experiment.

Merci, Olivier! (For more on his Paris wine-tastings, see www.o-chateau.com.)

Santé!